


Little Death

by Fairleigh



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/F, Fictional Religion & Theology, Ritual Public Sex, Sex Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:42:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24610261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fairleigh/pseuds/Fairleigh
Summary: Everybody dies someday. This is the inescapable destiny of all who live.Lenore is the Mother Superior of her Revered Order, so she understands this truism better than most mortal women. She is unlike most mortal women, however, for tonight, on this most sacred of nights, she has been empowered to defer destiny for the faithful.
Relationships: High Priestess/Goddess She Worships, Original Female Character/Original Female Character
Comments: 4
Kudos: 37
Collections: The First Annual Femslash Kink Exchange 2020





	Little Death

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wimblydonner](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wimblydonner/gifts).



Everybody dies someday. This is the inescapable destiny of all who live.

Lenore is the Mother Superior of her Revered Order, so she understands this truism better than most mortal women. She is unlike most mortal women, however, for tonight, on this most sacred of nights, she has been empowered to defer destiny for the faithful.

The faithful surround her on all sides as she enters the temple. They are the elderly tonight, and the sick. The only sound to be heard the soft drag of her heavy skirt against the polished flagstones. Her skirt is embroidered layers of black velvet lined on the inside with bone-white silk. Her hooded cloak is made of the same rich materials, embroidered black velvet lined on the inside with bone-white silk. Black is the color of Lady Nuit, and so is white. The colors are only fitting.

Long ago, when Lenore’s people were primitive and simple, they worshipped the graven image. The Ancients imagined Lady Nuit as a beautiful young woman, bare breasts swollen with milk and belly ripe with child. Her arms and legs, though, were of a skeleton’s, the flesh long ago rotted away, the bones bleached white by time. She was life, and she was death — a single body, personifying both.

Lenore’s people are no longer primitive. They have achieved great wonders of science and engineering; they have conquered the world in the name of their goddess. They no longer need graven images to worship. They know that Lady Nuit is greater than any graven image. They know that Lady Nuit is real. They know that Lady Nuit is _more_.

The temple altar is carved ebon marble. It is ornate, ancient, and ice cold to the touch no matter the season. A simple wooden stepstool has been placed behind the altar, out of view. Lenore lifts her skirt above her ankles and uses the stepstool to mount the altar. She stands proudly atop it, chest thrown forward, shoulders back, head lifted, spine straight as an arrow. The worshipful eyes of Lady Nuit’s faithful are fixed upon her.

She throws her arms wide. “I am Mother Lenore of the Revered Order and devout servant of the Lady Nuit,” she calls out, her voice strident and strong through the reverent hush of the temple. “I maintain no holdings; I have borne no children; and I certify to you now that my vows upon induction to the Revered Order remain unbroken. My life has been pledged to the goddess, first, last, and always, and tonight, I offer a portion of this holy life unto you. Tonight, I die a little so that you may live.”

The ritual words are potent, and the air itself around Lenore seems to respond to the declaration of her offering. Her heavy skirt is lifted, and she wears no undergarments. Her cloak is blown back, and her bare breasts are exposed. She shudders, as if caressed, and her nipples peak.

She feels the bony fingers grasping her arms and the brush of a woman’s soft skin against her own a moment before a kiss claims her lips. The mouth is dominant, the teeth biting, and the tongue licks into her possessively. Lenore moans, fingers curling into the thick fabric of her skirt, knees weak and wobbling. Lady Nuit is here to claim her due.

Lenore is lifted and thrown backwards, the bottoms of her feet just grazing the surface of the altar. Her hair is whipped about her face. She is held, hovering at an impossible forty-five-degree angle, and a galvanizing touch starts at her throat, slides between the swells of her breasts, down below her sternum, tickling her belly, her navel, and traveling lower still … “Ahhhh!” Lenore cries involuntarily as her thighs are suddenly spread apart by the goddess’s power.

She opens her legs further of her own volition and feels her cunt begin to open too. She is already wet, she knows, her parts swollen and eager for the goddess. Her muscles clench in anticipation, and when the touch comes, as it inevitably does, to the sweetest, most sensitive spot at the tip of her clitoris, Lenore shakes. It does not feel like a mouth or a finger, but what it does feel is _divine_. And in a trice it is everywhere, absolutely everywhere, tickling and tugging at her labia, teasing the edges of her vagina, the crinkled pucker of her anus. It even probes the tiny urethral opening, explores underneath the hood of her clitoris, and _those_ sensations are so piercingly pleasurable that they are nearly pain.

“Inside me, Lady Nuit, I beg of you,” she whispers. “Fill me with your grace.”

And she is filled. The goddess is no mere woman, nor is she human, and Lenore would never mistake what reaches into her for anything human. No, it pushes too intimately, too deeply, and moves too improbably to be anything but Lady Nuit’s divine favor. From her cunt, up her spine, into her stomach, reaching to the back of her very _throat_ , yes, she feels those irresistible strokes.

The sensations are intense enough to be a torment. Lenore tosses her head back and forth. She wants to finish, and she wants to finish quickly, but of course her desires are denied. She is stroked and suckled, pierced and pummeled until her muscles lock and her toes curl. Over and over and over again, she is brought the brink but is not allowed to fall. Over and over and over again, droplets of sweat sliding down her forehead and into her lashes, stinging her eyes with the salt wages of her exertions, the oblivion of release is denied.

Until, as if by some secret signal, it isn’t. Lenore screams as her mind blanks, as she falls, prostrate on the altar, into an annihilating ecstasy that never seems to end.

This is the little death. All around her, the faithful partake of Lenore’s ecstatic sacrifice. By the blessing of Lady Nuit they are healed of their sickness and restored to youth’s vigor. They shout with joy, and their spontaneous prayers of gratitude fill the temple as Lenore succumbs at last to exhaustion and sleeps soundly in the embrace of the goddess until morn.

Everybody dies someday. This is the inescapable destiny of all who live. Tonight, on this most sacred of nights, Lenore has died a little for them and deferred this destiny for another day.


End file.
